Recollections of the Day 12/25/2022

By: Jennifer Richardson Holt

And so, comes another Christmas.  We welcome this one perhaps in a new way or yet again in ways that we have welcomed all the ones before.  And then there is also the possibility that you’re greeting the day in some glorious mixture of old traditions and new.  I suppose as our lives change our celebrations do the same at least somewhat. We go from the childhood excitement to watching other children have that same expectation that we remember so long ago.  That is probably one of the most powerful things about this time of year that we may not give much thought. This holiday makes the memories come so easily.  This can be both a blessing and a curse as we all know since memories are fraught with the full gamut of emotion.  As I am typing a cataract of recollections come washing over me and bringing with them more feelings than I had expected.  I can’t even begin to tell you all the sentiments that the flow carries with it.  Today I will revisit a few of those moments and tell you their tales.   Maybe some of my tales might bring your own to mind.  We can ride the wave of emotion together.

In recalling all my Christmases past, the first one at which I arrive is nestled securely in early childhood. I must have been somewhere between 5 and 10 years old or thereabouts.  At the time our family tradition was we spent the holiday with my mother’s family in Northeast Alabama in the foothills of the Appalachians. It was cold and the forecasts had been hopeful because you see, there is nothing that could thrill a Southern child’s heart more than snow on Christmas.  We do not see snow very often in these parts and we have grown up with all the classic seasonal images of snowmen and sleigh rides and to witness either is terribly rare.  As children, we wanted snow terribly. As an adult, I would still love it for the aesthetic and for that same yearning that my daughter has, however I also see how ridiculous we Southerners behave when we do have it so my feelings on the frozen precipitation are mixed. But that year at my slightly more northerly relatives’ home there was a chance, and I will never forget how it all played out. 

Most children cannot help but awaken early on Christmas morning.  I and my cousins stayed true to that form and were up at the most minimal amount of light that dawn had to offer.  It wasn’t just Christmas morning, but there was also that chance that if we looked outside that we might just see what every greeting card and movie had always shown us the day was supposed to look like. I was staying with my aunt and uncle as they had two children near my age.  Their house sits on top of a hill and sure enough as we came from the bedrooms and got to the living room where the tree was, we were giddy to look out of the glass doors to the back yard and find our long yearned-for coating of white. It wasn’t deep snow and I don’t’ recall exactly if it even lasted the day, but it was beautiful and it was the stuff of which our childlike dreams were made. I think, and with my much more elderly memory there is that chance that I am wrong, it may well be the only white Christmas I have ever had.  If that changes, I assure you that you will read about it.

The next memory is on the opposite end of the spectrum in every sense of the word.  I remember my first Christmas with a child of my own. She was only six months old, so it wasn’t like we had the thrill and glee of gifts and festivities.  As a matter of fact, my daughter was sick and attempting to get over a sinus infection.  So, imagine if you will, a baby who was really too young to enjoy all the usual high points as well as was feeling less than ideal. Now add in, the tedious detail that the weather was unseasonable and downright irrationally warm.  To sweat on Christmas is, in my humble opinion, an abomination and that is what we were doing on that day. Disregard any lovely sweater or coat that you receive as what should be a reasonable gift because to put it to use would be to risk heat stroke.  What should have been a memorable Christmas for my family turned out to be just a tad on the miserable side.  No, not that it didn’t have its bright points of being with family and remembering the reason for our celebration. But I will say that while I was sad to see the day pass, I was quite possibly a little less sad than I usually am.

There are countless more recollections I could write about. I remember when preparing Christmas dinner my mother cut open her hand.  That was not the day that our family had expected, though fear not. A quick trip to the emergency room and some expertly applied super glue solved the situation without much issue.  I remember the ever-present sound of chickens clucking at my grandmother’s house each year. Still to this day a rooster or hen uttering the slightest immediately takes me to her house on the holiday playing with my cousins.  There are so many things to remember.

I am realizing something though.  Most of my memories don’t involve gifts that I received.  I do remember a few that I gave that stand out as particularly joyous moments but the things I have gotten aren’t the highlighted moments.  I remember interactions with people. I remember beloved places.  I remember moments.  In this world that is rife with unabashed commercialism it is not that aspect at all that our minds and hearts hold so dearly.  This is a clear reminder of what is truly important.  This day is utterly and completely not about presents.  Wait. I take that back. It is about a, no, THE Gift. On this day we were given Hope. We were given Love beyond what we can imagine.  I don’t treasure this day because of some coveted present I opened.  The fondest memories are of things of infinitely more depth than anything material could provide.  You might get the temporal happiness from snow and fun but those are fleeting.  May we all remember this Christmas that true Joy will not be found in a box. It may require unwrapping, however. We may have to shed the ideas of what the day SHOULD be and really cling to what it is supposed to be.  This isn’t about things.  They aren’t what we will or should remember.  When we sing the traditional songs of the day, let’s actually listen. Today is brings the thrill of Hope and the weary world rejoices.  Let that be our most closely held memory, both now and always.